


Knowing

by Azile_Teacup



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azile_Teacup/pseuds/Azile_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur/Eames</p><p>one morning, things don't go quite as Arthur predicts. </p><p> </p><p>hc_bingo prompt: grief</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: grief

One of the first things that Arthur learnt about Eames, and one of the things that remains the most surprising, is that Eames is a morning person. Ridiculously so. He's up before Arthur every day, without fail, and he always gets right up and goes for a run. Even after a long job. Arthur thinks it's probably the only routine that Eames has, at all, including things like brushing teeth, showering, eating, breathing, sleeping. Well, maybe not breathing. Eames does breathe on the regular. Arthur stares at the coffee pot, already percolating, left for him by Eames. it's black depths call to him and he's becoming vaguely hypnotized by the mix of sight, sound and smell. So many mornings with Eames being like this; the coffee pot waiting on the side, no other sign of the man himself, and then, the door will open and Eames will walk in, quiet, intent, focussed. 

 

Arthur pours himself a mug and perches on the counter, waiting. One of the things that surprises people most, or would surprise people most if more than a handful of people knew it, is that in general Arthur's the lazier out of him and Eames. Not that either of them are really lazy, but Arthur turns work off when they're not there, Arthur likes to relax, he's a bit of a hedonist, he has a very definite sense of humour. Eames has a sense of humour, but it's so wrapped up in personae and imitation and Eames' work that it's like a patching up of other people's humour, knitted together to suit him and shifted whenever he pleases. Eames is always shifting, always changing. The running, the early mornings, that's Eames. No one else, no copied or stitched into him, just himself. His own thing. There are others, like the way Eames makes coffee, his quiet, his socks (oddly enough- he has two 'sets' of socks, one from his stolen selves and one that is just him).

 

Arthur goes to wander down the hall, leaving his half drained mug on the table. Eames should be back by now, he's usually pretty exact about timing. Sometimes he's a little early, if he needs to work off some energy, or a little late if he's tired. Maybe he's tired. Arthur's about to reach out and open the door when it's flung open from outside. Arthur blinks as Eames trips over, banging into the wall and falling onto his knees, tearing his headphones out and flinging them with his ipod onto the floor. Arthur watches, disconnected, too surprised to act. He takes in the clues; Eames' phone discarded on the steps, Eames gasping for breath, Eames clumsy. Clearly he's in distress of some kind. Arthur assess him briefly for injury, but there's no sign of that. It seems it's mental distress.

 

Arthur considers his options. He knows Eames, by now. Knows him well enough to realise that this isn't frustration or anger but real misery. He knows Eames well enough to see that it's not about a job or about his run or about the neighbours. Which means that it's Eames on the floor there, and not any tattered persona or forge, not someone else's emotion. His own. Arthur's Eames. Arthur kneels and gets hold of Eames' chin, tilting his head so their eyes meet. Eames's are red, wet, but he's not crying. His chest shudders against Arthur's, his eyes shutting, brow knitting in pain.

 

"Are you hurt?" Arthur asks, just to check.

 

Eames shakes his head, a strange, strangled, animal sound escaping his lips.

 

"Is there any action that needs to be taken?" Arthur asks.

 

Again, a shake of the head.

 

"Alright."

 

Arthur lets go of Eames' face and immediately Eames jerks, burying himself against Arthur, head ducking to press against his shoulder, shuddering. Arthur just holds on to wait it out.  

 

 

 

 

"Your dressing gown is soft," Eames says, voice a little hoarse and rough but otherwise uneffected by the surge of emotion.

 

"So you tell me."

 

"Ah, Arthur. Bloody hell, this isn't supposed to go like this."

 

"No, I don't suppose it is."

 

"You won't be able to watch the news for a bit, not here."

 

"Alright."

 

"They were good men. My men. Stupid men, some of."

 

"Soldiers?"

 

"You could call them that, I suppose. Specials. Soldiers is close enough."

 

"All of them?"

 

"Yes."

 

Arthur heaves Eames up and they walk through to the kitchen. Eames protests when Arthur leaves to retrieve Eames' discarded electronics and shut the door, but he lets him go. When Arthur gets back Eames is stood by the sink, looking out the window. 

 

"You need anything?" Arthur asks. 

 

"Plenty. you'll do, for now."

 

"What a great compliment. You know, you're supposed to turn to me with teary eyes and say 'only you'."

 

Eames turns, but his eyes aren't teary. He looks a bit haggard and shocked, face pale, eyes wide and a bit glazed. 

 

"We've dealt with death too many times, Arthur. I'll take the morning, with you, and then... then I'll bury them. They were good men, and they are important, but they're gone."

 

"Alright."

 

Arthur lets Eames talk how he likes. He knows that it will probably be more like a week before Eames is able to bury them, pass them on to his subconscious. He's seen Eames grieve before, knows that the tears will come at some point, probably while watching a stupid movie with the Cobbs' dog on the sofa with him, stolen for just such a purpose. He'll talk about them, too. One by one, carefully outlining them for Arthur, listing the things he's taken from each of them, personality traits, physical ticks, appearances, idiosyncrasies. He'll start drawing, beginning with forges and moving on; portraits, moments, and finally something abstract and dark. He'll probably cook, make himself comfort food. And he'll stick closer to Arthur at work, and he'll sit closer to Arthur, and he'll lean into Arthur's shoulder like he's doing now, silently asking for physical comfort. Which Arthur will provide. 


End file.
